


Unexpected Enclownters

by La_Marquise



Series: Strange Enclownters [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Marquise/pseuds/La_Marquise
Summary: After his first match with Hisoka, Kastro tries to nurse his wounded pride by drinking at a local dive.  The night doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Hisoka/Kastro
Series: Strange Enclownters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660450
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Unexpected Enclownters

**Author's Note:**

> Kastro is down to clown.

Kastro doesn’t drink very often. Alcohol makes him sluggish, sloppy, and prone to indulging in further excesses. It’s a slippery slope, one that under normal circumstances, Kastro wouldn’t care to traverse. In light of recent events, however, Kastro has decided to make an exception. He’s chosen a humble establishment: a small local place a few blocks away from the glitz and neon lights of Heavens Arena. Kastro wants to be far away from that place tonight.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender is short, gruff, and balding. To Kastro, he looks almost like a caricature of a bartender.

“Whiskey.”

“You got it.” The bartender glances at Kastro’s face and grimaces. “Jeez buddy, what happened? You get mugged or something?” 

Kastro instinctively runs his fingers over the bruise on his cheekbone and winces. “Something like that.”

It’s clear that the bartender doesn’t recognize him. Good. The last thing Kastro wants is to be grilled about his latest match at Heavens Arena. His latest defeat.

The bartender, adept at knowing when patrons want to talk and when they’d rather be unbothered, shrugs and procures a glass of caramel-colored liquid. “Enjoy.”

Kastro shudders at the first sip. The whiskey manages to taste even cheaper than it already is; the astringent fluid stings his split lip and burns his throat on the way down, but Kastro determinedly knocks it back and orders another.

As it turns out, diesel fuel-masquerading-as-liquor is easy to drink when you’re trying to drown your sorrows and gets even easier after the first two glasses. Kastro sips his third and surveys his surroundings. Despite its humble interior, the bar isn’t quite a dive. The tables and chairs are clean, the bar is only slightly sticky, and the air only smells a tiny bit like cigarette smoke. The alcohol has already begun to work its magic; Kastro feels loser, lighter, and as his eyes scan the clientele he can’t help but wonder if there’s anyone he’d like to take home. Alcohol-fueled hookups are not his style, but sometimes the best way to heal wounded pride is to lose yourself in the arms of a stranger.

An attractive brunette catches Kastro’s eye. She’s standing near the pool table, sipping a colorful cocktail that looks out of place amongst all the nondescript beer bottles. Kastro notices with slight disappointment that she’s not alone, so he contents himself by watching her with vaguely impotent lust.

His gaze drifts over to the man monopolizing her attention, and Kastro immediately freezes. The lighting is dim and Kastro is on the other side of the room, but there’s no mistaking who the other man is. He’s dressed casually, his hair hasn’t been styled, and his face is bare, but that doesn’t matter; Kastro would recognize that face anywhere. That damned magician.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but Kastro assumes he must have been, because the red-haired man suddenly stiffens and turns to face him. Kastro quickly jumps to turn back towards the bar, but it’s too late; recognition has already flashed in those yellow eyes. Kastro isn’t sure whether to stand his ground or leave the establishment entirely; he’d love to punch Hisoka in the face again, but on the other hand, he isn’t exactly in the best condition for a dive bar brawl. He settles for what seems in his mind to be a happy medium and turns back towards the bar to focus on his whiskey. 

“Come here often?”

Kastro’s shoulders tense at the silkily-murmured, over-used pick-up line. He wants to ignore it, to lose himself in his drink and pretend that the man who nearly broke his jaw a week ago isn’t standing uncomfortably close behind him. He knows that the magician won’t allow him that luxury, so instead he replies with a curt “what are you doing here?”

He gets a chuckle in response. “Why does anyone come to a bar?” 

“You know what I meant. Why this one specifically?”

Hisoka shrugs lazily. “No reason. This one’s as good as any.” A smirk spreads across his face as he rests his elbow on the bar. “What I’m interested to know is, what are _you_ doing here?”

Kastro snorts derisively as he takes another drink.

“Well?” When Kastro doesn’t answer, Hisoka probes further. “Are you here for the selection of alcohol? No, that can’t be it… the women? Hm…” He runs his fingertip over the rim of his glass. “Perhaps you prefer the ambience of places like this? I admit that I’m surprised to see you in a place like this, especially considering, well…” He pauses meaningfully for a moment. “Considering your condition.”

He hits a nerve; Kastro grits his teeth angrily and fixes him with a glare. “Did you come here to mock me further? To gloat? Okay, have at it.”

To his dismay, Hisoka chuckles. “Oh dear…. It’s Kastro, right? Kastro. I have no interest in that. Once the match is over, I move on. What’s the point of grudges?” He waves a hand dismissively before resting his chin on his knuckles. “Though I must say… I’m impressed that you’ve healed so quickly. Most other people wouldn’t be out of bed this soon after.”

“You don’t hit so hard.”

“Don’t I?” Hisoka falls into a welcome but regrettably short silence; he begins lightly humming an unfamiliar melody to himself as he glances idly around the room.

Just as Kastro is beginning to tune him out, Hisoka speaks again. “Want to play?”

“Hm?” Kastro looks at him confusedly. “Play what?”

The magician tilts his head towards the unused pool table in the back of the room.

Kastro scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I ever want to play a pointless game like that with you?”

“For fun.” There’s a predatory glint in Hisoka’s yellow eyes as he runs his tongue over his lower lip. “Who knows, you might win.”

The sheer absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on Kastro: he’s sitting in a nondescript bar, well on his way to drunk, having a casual conversation with Hisoka as though he hadn’t tried to beat him to death a week ago. Why not play a friendly game of pool with him? Might as well.

“Fine,” he agrees, knocking back the remainder of his drink. “One game.”

“One game.”

*** 

Kastro is the first to admit that he’s not an expert at pool. He knows the basics, has good aim and can put a decent amount of power behind a shot, but he’s no professional. He breaks, sending the balls scattering across the table. The solid yellow “one” ball slowly rolls into a corner pocket.

“Solids.” He shoots again; a solid purple “four” falls neatly into a pocket but is followed closely by a the cue ball.

“Bad luck.” Hisoka clicks his tongue and retrieves the errant ball. “I suppose it’s my turn.” He studies the table for a moment then shoots; the cue ball ricochets off of the side, makes contact with a striped “thirteen,” and sends it flying into a hole. Hisoka shoots twice more, each shot sending in a “ten” and a “fourteen” respectively. He has less luck on the next shot; the cue ball merely grazes the “eleven.”

“I’ve lined that one up for you,” Hisoka drawls, grabbing the little blue cube of chalk and twisting it on the tip of his cue. “Don’t miss it.”

“Hmph.” Kastro considers taking the shot that the magician is referring to-- he could send the “three” right into the long side pocket—but opts for the less obvious choice. He sends the cue ball to the other side of the table, bouncing it off the cushion so that it could instead send a more difficultly-placed “five” into the corner pocket. He sinks two more balls, the “three” and the “six,” but scratches on the following try.

“You hit too hard,” Hisoka observes, positioning the cue ball again. He hits it delicately; it hits one side, then the other, before finally making contact with the “nine” and sending it into a pocket. “You see,” Hisoka continues, leaning over the table and considering his prospect, “it’s all geometry. Brute force has nothing to do with it.” The “fifteen” disappears into a pocket. Hisoka’s gaze flickers momentarily up at Kastro. “I can’t say I’m surprised at your game, though. Your fighting style is much the same.” In goes the “eleven.”

Kastro watches in seething disbelief as the magician systematically sinks the remaining striped balls. He can’t help but be impressed at the way he knows just how hard to hit the cue ball, and at just the right angle too. He watches in begrudged admiration as Hisoka cracks his neck, leans languidly over the table, calls his shot, and flawlessly sends the “eight” ball into the side pocket.

Hisoka straightens up and runs his fingers through his hair. “Better luck next time.”

“I don’t have time to devote myself to these simple games,” Kastro states far more flatly than he feels.

“No?” Hisoka cocks his head and smiles. “Well, it’s a good thing the game ended so quickly.”

“Shut up.”

“So angry. Over a game?”

“I’m not angry!” Kastro grits his teeth, all too aware that he’s starting to sound like a petulant child. “I’m not angry,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “I’m tired of this place. Whatever your true purpose for being here is, Hisoka, I don’t care. Enjoy your night.” He turns on his heel and strides away, stopping to pay his tab on the way out.

*** 

The summer is nearly over; a chill has crept into the nights. Kastro strides down the neon sign-illuminated streets, warmed by previously imbibed alcohol and lingering anger. He can’t believe his luck, or lack thereof. Had Hisoka truly been at the bar by chance? No. The odds are far too small. Surely he wanted to gloat over his victory some more, surely he— Kastro stops suddenly, his ears pricking and the hair on his neck standing on end. He’s not alone.

Kastro immediately whirls around, ready to confront whoever is following him, but finds only the empty street. His confusion is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder; he spins back around, this time swinging his fist.

“Eager to get back in the ring again, I see.”

Upon hearing Hisoka’s voice, Kastro freezes, his fist still raised. “What the hell are you doing here? Sneaking around after me?”

“I’m walking back to my room, is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” Even in the darkness, Kastro can see that Hisoka’s face is annoyingly unmarred from their previous fight, despite him having landed a direct punch to the magician’s cheekbone.

“You seem so upset.” Hisoka’s voice floods with false concern. “It’s not still about our match, is it? You really should just let—”

He’s interrupted by the thwack of Kastro’s fist connecting with his jaw. Hisoka stumbles back, momentarily stunned. He quickly steadies himself and gingerly presses his fingertips against where Kastro hit, which is rapidly becoming an angry red welt. His pupils dilate, his nostrils flare, his tongue skims along his bottom lip. “I didn’t think you’d recover from our fight so quickly. Well done.”

Before Kastro can respond, Hisoka has launched himself at him. His fist is pulled back, ready to strike. Kastro manages to dodge the hit and counter with one of his own, but Hisoka deflects the attack. They continue to exchange fists, elbows, and shoves for what feels to Kastro like an eternity; he’s still injured and sore from their previous match and can feel himself getting winded far too quickly. A well-aimed low punch to his stomach sends him reeling backwards into a wall; Kastro moves to retaliate but is immobilized when Hisoka rushes forward and pins him.

“You’re tired.” Hisoka’s voice is laced with mock concern. “I think we’d better stop here, don’t you?”

Kastro tries to push the magician off of himself but it’s no use; Hisoka is taller, has at least several kilos on him, and isn’t suffering from any serious injuries. He’s won again. With a defeated sigh Kastro slumps his shoulders and leans his head against the wall.

“Fine.”

Hisoka raises an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ll stop. You’re right, I’m exhausted.” Kastro closes his eyes, suddenly all-too aware that Hisoka is extremely close. His knee has nudged between Kastro’s legs and his thigh is putting not-entirely-unwanted pressure against his groin. Kastro exhales with a hiss through clenched teeth. He’s not sure if it’s due to all the pent-up rage and adrenaline, the alcohol, or the fact that he hasn’t had any sort of release in weeks, but Kastro finds himself wanting Hisoka to press his thigh against him just a little bit harder. He recoils at the thought. Perhaps he’s just a pervert, after all.

Hisoka, it seems, has a sixth sense for thoughts such as Kastro’s. He immediately picks up on the pale man’s inexplicable want and grinds his thigh between his legs. A look of delight spreads across Hisoka’s face when he discovers Kastro to be half-hard. He begins to say something but is cut off by a preemptive “shut up.” He chuckles instead.

When Kastro feels Hisoka’s teeth graze against his neck, he knows he’s let things go too far. When he feels the magician’s crotch press against his, he realizes that he has no intention of stopping. He should, he must, but… He closes his eyes and momentarily loses himself. His body feels achingly hot and tingly. In a fit of desperation he begins to rock against Hisoka’s crotch in order to create more friction. Anything to relieve the tension.

Hisoka bites down on Kastro’s neck and ruts against him, a move that draws a growl from deep inside Kastro’s chest. He reaches down between them to blindly fiddle with the buttons on Kastro’s pants as he continues to attack his neck.

Kastro’s eyes snap open when Hisoka’s hand wraps around his cock. He curses, breath catching in his throat when his former opponent begins to pump him with firm, languid strokes. His cheeks burn with shame and arousal when he thrusts his hips forward into Hisoka’s touch. He hates it, having the sadistic magician touching him like this. He hates how hard he’s gotten, he hates how Hisoka is making him groan and dig his fingertips into the stone wall behind him. He hates how a humiliatingly high-pitched whine of protest escapes him when Hisoka suddenly stops.

He glares in annoyance at the magician, who has suddenly pulled back and is staring at him through half-lidded eyes. “What?”

Hisoka hums and narrows his eyes. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

His blunt words send Kastro into stunned silence. He grits his teeth in indignation. “What the hell—” 

“You’re hard,” Hisoka states simply. “And very worked up. I’d offer to let you try to fight me again, but I don’t think you’re physically up to it.” He licks his lips. “So?”

Kastro swallows thickly as he feels Hisoka’s eyes bore into his. He knows he could say no and tell his strange companion to fuck off. He could, if he wanted to. Instead, he exhales shakily and gives a barely perceptible nod. It is enough.

Hisoka is on him again a split second later, pressing him harder against the wall. His lips are at Kastro’s throat, his fingers are digging into his ass cheeks as he grinds his clothed erection against him. He slips a hand into Kastro’s pants to stroke him again. His tongue skates across the shell of Kastro’s ear. “We could go back to my room, you know. It doesn’t have to be here.”  
“No,” Kastro chokes out in a voice that he barely recognizes as his own. “Let’s stay here.” He knows that he’s resigning himself to a rough, dirty fuck in an alleyway with very little in the way of preparation, but he can’t bring himself to go back to Heavens Arena with this man. His pride won’t allow it.

“As you wish.” Hisoka draws back. “Turn around.”

As soon as Kastro braces himself against the wall, his pants are yanked down. “Careful,” he hisses over his shoulder. “Don’t—"

His words are lost in a gasp when a finger pushes inside him. “Oh, fuck…”

“Language,” Hisoka chides softly as he adds another finger. “I never pegged you as someone with a dirty mouth.” He fucks Kastro with his fingers as he strokes himself to full hardness. “I didn’t think you’d be so needy, either… sucking me in like this.”

Kastro clenches his jaw at Hisoka’s taunts. “Can you just shut up?” He growls. “If you’re going to fuck me, just do it.” To his surprise, Hisoka obeys. The sudden emptiness Kastro feels when Hisoka withdraws his fingers is strange, but he suppresses the urge to make more demands. He doesn’t turn to look, but he hears the rustle of fabric and the wet sound of Hisoka spitting into his hand and slicking himself up. Kastro can’t help but tense when he feels Hisoka’s cock against his entrance, and he bites the back of his hand when he pushes in.

It takes considerable concentration on Kastro’s part to keep himself from collapsing into the wall, but he manages. Hisoka has an iron grip on his hips, and he’s pounding into him with such force that Kastro’s sure he’ll bruise. In contrast to his earlier reticence, the magician is loud now; a string of lewd, disgustingly vulgar moans are tearing themselves from his chest and throat and tainting the previously silent streets. Kastro had promised himself that he wouldn’t give Hisoka the satisfaction of hearing him lose control, but he’s finding it impossible to keep that promise. Deep, broken groans threaten to escape him as he arches his back to push himself further onto Hisoka’s cock. When Hisoka reaches around and grips Kastro’s aching cock while thrusting up against his prostate, the white-haired man gives in and lets out a strangled keen of arousal. The feeling had pushed far beyond pleasure and into the realm of sweet torture; when Hisoka bites his shoulder, Kastro comes with a sob.

It doesn’t take long for Hisoka to finish. He digs his fingers into Kastro’s hipbones and slams in, his hips spasming as his orgasm hits. He stills drawing in shaky breaths and resting his head against Kastro’s shoulder. Kastro doesn’t say anything, but he winces when he feels Hisoka pull out. 

The two men say nothing as they straighten themselves out. Kastro pulls up his pants and adjusts his now-rumpled shirt. He grimaces when he feels Hisoka’s cum beginning to leak out of him. He desperately needs to shower, drink some water, and go to bed. Forget this ever happened. Wordlessly, he begins to walk away but pauses when Hisoka calls after him.

“Where are you going?”

“Where do you think? My room.”

“Alone?”

“Obviously.”

“Shame.” Hisoka sighs to himself. “It’s still early.”

“Don’t care.” Kastro continues walking, hoping that Hisoka will just leave him be. To his disappointment, the magician falls into step and continues to walk beside him.

“I enjoyed that.”

“I figured as much.”

“Almost as much as I enjoyed our match.”

Kastro shoots him a glare. “Could you please just go away?”

“I suppose I could.” A smirk creeps across Hisoka’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want company tonight?”

“I am absolutely sure.”

Hisoka makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs. “If you say so.” He stops and grabs Kastro’s arm as he tries to walk away. “But… if you do change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”  
Kastro recoils with visible disgust and rolls his eyes. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“For fighting or fucking. Your choice. I’ll be there.” With a final smile, Hisoka releases him and strides off into the night.

Kastro shakes his head and walks back to Heavens Arena. He’s exhausted, sore, and more than a little bit disgusted with himself. He sighs as he enters the elevator, letting his head rest against the wall as he begins to process what just happened. It’s beginning to sink in that he’s just let Hisoka fuck him in a dirty, deserted sidestreet, and Kastro can’t tell if the revulsion he’s feeling is because of the act itself, or because he enjoyed it. 

The elevator pings, the doors open, and Kastro strides out towards his room. As he unlocks his door, Hisoka’s offer runs through his mind.

“If you do change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.” For fighting or fucking, he said. Kastro clicks his tongue and shudders. He has no intention of taking that disgusting man up on his offer. At least, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Maybe.


End file.
